


LITG: A Prompt A Day

by venueska



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venueska/pseuds/venueska
Summary: My efforts to honor NaNoWriMo in a unique way. One prompt for every day of November 2020. More tags and pairings will be added as more fics are posted/written.
Relationships: Bobby McKenzie/Main Character (Love Island), Bobby McKenzie/Original Character(s), Hannah & Lottie (Love Island), Hannah/Lottie (Love Island)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Basket Case Bobby [Bobby/MC]

It’s a dreadful day for a date. It’s as if the laws of nature were declining Bobby the chance to revisit a past lover, to make amends, to tie off loose ends. But he is resilient and stubborn, so he hikes out to see you anyway. The Saturday he does it is overcast with clouds that are so gloomy and rotten - they’re in a horribly spoiled mood, Bobby thinks, which is why they seem to threaten him, thundering the promise to split and downpour on his overgrown dreads. He shoots them an even nastier look, saying, “Don’t even think about it. I have to look my best for her. You know that.”

The grass is less grass and more mulch that day, and, Bobby thinks, it must be because nature is spending all of its efforts and energy on keeping the bouquet in Bobby’s hands alive. He cannot blame the autumn for doing so. The flowers took his own priority over his supper tonight, after all.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Bobby says, attempting half-assedly at a signature grin. You’d always chided him for laughing at his own jokes. It almost stings that you don’t today. Instead of facing your well-intended criticism, he faces something much more irritating. Cold, insufferable silence. “I… I’ll have to beg your pardon for leaving our picnic in the car. I ran so late I don’t think the gods will give us enough time to feast. I’m sorry.”

And he waits in the cold, insufferable silence for a pardon that would never come. Your pale, chapped lips don’t move to say, “No worries,” or, “You apologize funny, Bobs. Did I ever tell you that?”

But he responds as if you have. “You did. You told me all the time. You said, _You don’t have to hop and skip along the way, you know. It’s a little stroll from my name to I’m sorry, and I’ll beat you to the forgiving bit every time._ You knew me better than everyone else. You said you’d - “ And here is where Bobby chokes on his words. The man you fell in love with was always spewing a few too many, never stumbling or stuttering, and never to you. “You’d be the best at knowing me, and nobody else would even get a spot in the race. And when I prodded, when I said - “

_“Are you sure about that, lass?” he had said, with the same shit-eating grin he always had before he moved his hand down to your waist._

_You cocked your eyebrow like a gun, pulling him closer to you by the belt loops of his jeans that he’d hidden beneath the ugliest Christmas sweater you’d ever seen. “Over my dead body.”_

“You were so many things to me, lass,” Bobby says, tears clinging to his lashes like his hands to what’s left of your memory; a polaroid photograph that you’d taken of the waterfall the two of you came across the very last July you’d ever survive, the one that you’d claimed God himself had to have materialized, plagiarized, frankly - from one of your favorite dreamlands. Every droplet, you’d mused, was falling just as it was meant to fall. And at that waterfall, as you had many times before, you kissed him, and as he had each time before, he wished it would last forever.

But it was different that time. Bobby could feel himself moving, he could feel you moving against him - but the feeling was incomplete. Like a card declined. He felt far away, even as he lived the moment - as if he was watching himself in third person. Or perhaps he simply felt he was being watched, by hundreds of thousands of pairs of his own eyes, days, weeks, months or decades into the future. Either way, the surreality of the day lingered until sunset. And he knew it at the time, to an extent, but he knew it fully today. He was living in a memory. The moment, just as he’d wished, lasted forever. For better or worse, it lasted forever. 

And each moment he spent with you henceforth and afterward felt the same. Time, he realized in the month before your demise, was a currency of its own. Moments spent with you could have been moments spent with some other brilliant and talented dame, but he wouldn’t trade them for the world. Every moment in the hospital kitchen could have been spent behind a desk, computing and calculating, blossoming as an expert in numbers and finance and technology and science - but instead he was a baker. 

“It all sort of adds up to a big pitiful waste, though, doesn’t it?” Bobby’s friends would say of his love for you. “I feel for the bloke, I really do. But what I feel is pity, which is the last thing he needs right now. So what do I say to him? Exactly. So I say nothing.”

And that was the case for everyone who ever claimed to love him. Bobby drowned in empty promises to be there, to care and to listen. He grew comfortable in his loneliness that he felt wasn’t loneliness at all. Anyone with eyes and a sliver of sanity to their name knew he was past the point of lonely. ‘Basket case’ felt too generous. The poor Scotsman was a shell, without a ghost to fill it, of who he used to be. 

He drew a breath, finally dragging his unwilling consciousness to the present, only when his lungs demanded it. And he stared at your lifeless eyes, or the colorful lids to them that your good friend Chelsea gave him to gaze at instead, and he echoed his own words from before he lost himself in your memory.

“You were so many things to me, lass,” he says, and by now he’s lost all control over the tears so clingy, they could have given him a run for his money. He shook his head as he remembered your promise - your promise to take his every secret, well… “To the _grave_ , lass. To the grave. God, you were so many things. But you were never a liar.”

Silence. It was a common thing here, at the cemetery. And it was the silence that forced him to realize he was never gazing at your pale, lifeless lips or your lifeless, lidded eyes. He hadn’t for years. All he had of you now was the name etched in the headstone before him and the photograph in his hands. A photograph he hardly needed to revisit the memory captured in it at all. So he sets it on the gravestone, buried in the bouquet he sets atop of your grave. 

“Lilies in autumn,” he says. “Your favorite conundrum.” 

He sighs, his gaze dropping to his muddy shoes, as if he’s afraid to look your grave in the eye.

“But you were mine, lass.” He forces his legs to walk away from you. From the mulch you were buried six feet beneath. From the worms who were undoubtedly crawling over what was left of the skin he used to call his own. “And over your dead body will your promise be broken.”

He glances over his shoulder at the bouquet that’s being torn up by win from the coming storm.

“No one will ever know me like you did. Take my secrets to the grave, lass. I won’t make a liar out of you.”


	2. Blue-Balled by Butterfingers [Hannah/Lottie]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historically, Halloween queen Lottie has made a terrific best friend for Hannah on October 31st every year, but this year, Hannah needs special attention. Fortunately, Lottie has plenty of attention - and spare candy - up her sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my word count goal for these prompts is supposed to be 800-1000 and so far (two out of two times, so 100% fail rate) i've surpassed that by at least 100 words :| anyway enjoy<33 hehe

“For the last time. Breakups are victorious, Hannah - what have I told you about men?” Lottie clicks her tongue, eyeing herself in the vanity mirror and giving one of her false eyelashes a few gentle strokes. Hannah sniffles in response, knowing that Lottie will say it whether she jumps in or doesn’t. “We don’t need them.” 

Lottie strides over to Hannah’s four-post bed and takes both of Hannah’s hands in her own. “We have us,” the witch points out. “And far too much candy. But maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. I mean, what kind of post-breakup sleepover would this be without chocolates, Hannah?”

Hannah sniffles again, but this time she does it with a small smile. “You’re sleeping over?” she asks softly.

“Of course I am,” Lottie says, wrapping both arms around her friend and making a pillow out of her chest. “It’s my duty after all. I consider my friendship with you a full-time job.”

“And what do I owe you?” Hannah asks. Truthfully she’s being cheeky, but she masks it flawlessly with a puzzled tone and expression.

“Hm?”

“If this is your job, you must be getting paid,” Hannah says. “How much?”

Hannah moves to get out of bed, reaching for her purse that contains an imaginary fair salary. 

Lottie frowns and pulls Hannah back into bed. “Lots of cuddles,” she says sternly. Hannah bursts into giggles. “And, funniest thing about this job - you owe me nothing. I pay you.”

Hannah shakes her head. “No, honestly, Lottie, I don’t - “

“All of this bloody candy,” Lottie says, reaching for one of her many buckets of goodies and dumping it on Hannah’s lap. Hannah squeals. 

“These are your riches, my Lady,” Hannah laughs. “How can I rob your majesty of her riches?”

Every year since the pair had met as children, Hannah had known Lottie to win every costume competition and lookalike contest held at their school. The Queen of Halloween always managed to take her costume to the next level, always finding a prop of some kind to really sell the look - which, this year, was Elphaba. In the same sense that some grew more popular as teens for their looks, it seemed Lottie was extraordinarily skilled in the opposite - she was admired for the way she very much did not look. She reaped (and, usually, so did Hannah) the well-deserved benefits of her efforts and skills annually on her favorite day of the year: Halloween.

“Not _my_ majesty,” Lottie deadpans. “Yours.”

Hannah raises her eyebrows. “Oh, _mine_?” She licks her lips, suddenly parched. “Well, I have to take better care of my belongings, don’t I?”

And that’s when Lottie freezes, in front of her best friend in the gorgeous and comfortable bedroom she had visited several times before. Suddenly, she feels a bizarre concoction of comfort and irregular alarm all at once. Hannah takes a tuft of Lottie’s blonde hair between her fingers and pushes it out of Lottie’s face. Her blue eyes search over the canvas of Lottie’s face, running their route from Lottie’s pigmented green forehead, to her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, along the perfect lines drawn around her eyes, down her cheeks… finally coming to rest on Lottie’s plump, parted lips.

“I - uh, I clean,” Hannah chokes out, reaching for a makeup wipe that rests on her bedside table. “I have to keep my things clean, don’t I?”

Lottie shifts in her seat and clears her throat. “You, uh - huh?” She gives Hannah a fazed look, at a loss for questions after her own little journey down from Hannah’s map of freckles to Hannah’s lips.

Hannah moves closer to Lottie, giving her a reassuring smile, makeup wipe in hand. “For a sleepover, you’re insanely overdressed,” she says. “I’m not sharing a room with Elphaba, you know. How do I know you won’t put a spell on me?”

Despite herself, Hannah still isn’t so sure she’s not already under Lottie’s spell. Something about her…

Lottie nods and scoots closer to Hannah to let her clean her face, closing even more space between them. 

Hannah is soft, slow and tender. She takes her time removing the face paint. Little does Lottie know, she’s both excited and terrified to be this close to her, and she doesn’t want to get away before she figures out which. And little does Hannah know, Lottie’s thinking the same. In fact, the witch might finally have had the pleasure of being bewitched herself - something about Hannah calls out to her like a siren. It starts to feel ridiculous and even wrong that Hannah’s lips are alone right now.

Lottie shuts her eyes to give Hannah the go to wipe off her eye makeup. Hannah is gentle - very easy on the eyes. Lottie cracks a smile and says so, “You’re easy on the eyes.”

“Am I?” Hannah says, relieved Lottie’s eyes are shut to hide the blush on her face. “I’m easy on the heart too, if you give me a chance.”

Lottie laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”

Hannah drops her hand from Lottie’s eyes and gives her an innocent smile. “Who, me?”

“Get cleaning, ginge,” Lottie replies, shutting her eyes again once she realized they were drawn to Hannah’s lips. She couldn’t risk Hannah noticing. 

_But then again_ , Lottie thinks, braver now, _what’s the worst that could come from that?_

Her mind shrieks at her to keep her head. Keep her cool. But she finds, oddly enough, that she really doesn’t want to. Hannah’s hand glides over every bump and crevice, with grace and care. Chills run up Lottie’s arms and she shivers in place, startling Hannah’s hand off of her face.

“Did I hurt you?” Hannah asks.

“You could never,” Lottie assures her, guiding Hannah back to her face by inching her best friend’s elbow toward herself. She finds that Hannah’s hand is not the only thing moving closer to her face. Lottie glances down at Hannah’s lips and her eyes don’t move from there except once, to check - and to successfully find - that Hannah’s eyes were on her own lips. “Actually, you might’ve.”

Hannah snaps out of her daze, her breath heavy. “What?”

“Right here,” Lottie says, bringing a manicured finger to her lips. “Yeah, right here. You could make it up to me.”

By now they’re as close as they can be without actually doing the deed. Hannah’s lips are certainly not as lonely as they had been, but Lottie’s are twice as shaky.

“And how could I ever?” Hannah asks, impressing Lottie each second she holds herself back from closing the space.

“Kiss it better,” Lottie says softly. The pair collide as soon as the last letter leaves Lottie’s lips. Hands are in hair now, lips are on lips now. It’s wonderful. It’s overdue. It’s bliss.

...and short-lived, it seems. The moment is killed by the sound of plastic wrappers crumpling between them. 

“Ah, fuck.” Lottie sighs as they both sit back down, faces flushed. “I can’t believe we’ve been blue-balled by leftover candy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Nov. 2 was... LEFTOVER CANDY.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for Nov 1. was... VISITING A CEMETERY.


End file.
